Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

Before I let you go, let me linger

In the sweetness of your gaze, in the touch of your fingers

Let me memorize the curve of your smile

And the way your laughter dances for a while

Before I let you go, let me stay

In the warmth of your presence, in the words you say

Let me hold onto this moment so dear

Before it fades away, before you disappear

Before I let you go, let me savor

The essence of your being, the love we favor

Let me cherish the memories we've made

And the bond that will never fade

Before I let you go, let me promise

To carry you with me, to keep you close

For though our paths may diverge and part

You'll always reside in the depths of my heart

Before I let you go, let me thank

For the joy you brought, for the love you stank

And though goodbye may be bittersweet

Our connection will forever beat

In the realm of dreams, where memories dwell,

A tapestry of moments, woven well.

Total Recall, a journey divine,

To traverse the landscapes of the mind.

Visions of past, like whispers in the night,

A tapestry of colors, dancing in delight.

Each recollection, a spark ablaze,

Igniting the soul in a fiery blaze.

Through corridors of time, we wander free,

Exploring the depths of our memory.

Every moment, every joy, every tear,

Etched in the fabric of our yesteryear.

Total Recall, a gift so rare,

To relive the past with tender care.

In the tapestry of life, we find our place,

Bound by memories, bound by grace.

In the hush of dawn, where shadows recede,

A tender whisper looms, as day takes its lead.

The horizon ignites with a shimmering grace,

Awakening dreams in this luminous space.

Crimson and amber entwine in the sky,

Each brushstroke of light makes the night say goodbye.

The world holds its breath, for the moment is grand,

As the sun spills its gold from a painter's soft hand.

Heartbeats align with the dance of the light,

In the warmth of the amber, all sorrows take flight.

The past fades to twilight, a chapter now closed,

In the cradle of morning, a new tale is posed.

Each ray a reminder of battles once fought,

Of laughter and love, of the lessons life taught.

Through the veil of the morning, hope rises anew,

In the promise of gold, a horizon so true.

For life is a canvas, each dawning a chance,

To weave in our stories, to sway in the dance.

In the golden break, where the old meets the new,

We find in the light, all the strength to push through.

So cherish the moments, let gratitude speak,

As the world turns to gold in the dawn's gentle cheek.

In the splendor of morning, find peace, and partake,

For we are all bidden to witness the break.

Every dog has its day,
a small sun rising where the pavement cracks--
a gnawed slipper baptized in morning light,
a tail that learns to count the world.
Some days are thunder: sprinting down alleys,
nose like a compass to the vanished scent of dinner,
others are hush, a bed warmed by remembered hands.

There is the streetwise king with dust for a crown,
who finds a spilled sandwich and is royal for an hour.
There is the champion in the backyard--leaps like a yes,
eyes bright with the grammar of fetch,
who comes back every time with the whole day's praise caught in his mouth.

There is the old dog whose joints keep ledger,
who remembers every door that ever opened,
who dreams of running and wakes to the ache like a bell.
When the child drops a slice of toast, his tail--slow as forgiveness--answers.

There is the small one under the shelter light,
nose pressed to a cool, hopeful window,
who waits through seasons of goodbyes until a hand arrives,
and the world tilts, a plain made new as a bowl of water on a hot day.
For some, the day is loud with applause; for others, it is a single soft hand.

Every dog has its day,
not always the headline, but a holy quiet: a lap, a leash, a laugh,
the warmth of one familiar voice reciting the same silly name.
Sometimes it's a road that ends in a porch where the moon lays its silver paw.
Sometimes it's the simple miracle of being seen.

So let mornings be patient and let sunsets keep their secrets.
Listen for paws like small metronomes on the floor--count them.
Because when that day comes, it will be a bright thing:
brief, ordinary, fierce as joy, and it will make everything else forgiveable.

In twilight's embrace where the horizon bleeds,

A caravan dances, where the wild heart leads.

With laughter like fire, and footsteps like dreams,

They weave through the shadows with vibrant moonbeams.

With skirts made of sunbeams and crowns made of stars,

They travel the night with both hope and with scars.

The wind in their hair, like poems unsaid,

Each breath is a story, a path they have tread.

Oh, gypsy, oh wanderer, what secrets you keep?

In whispers of freedom, in the nights when you weep.

Your spirit, a river that cannot be tamed,

In the language of wanderlust, you have named.

With eyes deep as loam, burdened yet bright,

You carry the echoes of ancient delight.

For love is your compass, and the world is your kin,

In the rhythm of life, you let the wild in.

You gather the moments like fireflies caught,

In the nets of your laughter, the lessons you've taught.

Each campfire the cradle of tales to be spun,

Of shadows and moonlight, of hearths yet undone.

So dance, O free spirit, let your saga unfurl,

In the tapestry woven of this vibrant world.

For the gypsy, dear heart, is a melody clear,

A hymn for the wanderers, a song without fear.

Through deserts and mountains, through rivers that sigh,

Your journey is endless as stars in the sky.

In the whispers of twilight, we hear your sweet song,

A promise of belonging, where each heart finds its home.

In the realm of dreams where stars do gleam,

A world of wonder and moonlit stream,

Children drift to slumber's embrace,

With gentle tips, the night they'll face.

A bedtime story softly read,

A cozy blanket for their head,

Dim the lights, create a hush,

In peaceful rest, their thoughts will brush.

No screens or gadgets by their side,

Let nature's lullabies provide,

A soothing rhythm, whispers sweet,

To guide them into dreams complete.

A breath like waves upon the shore,

Inhale the peace, exhale the roar,

Release the worries of the day,

As sleep descends, in a quiet way.

So let them rest, when the day is done,

In realms of gold beneath the sun,

With tender care and loving grace,

Their dreams unfold in tranquil space.

A Poetry About Sleeping Tips for Kids, a gentle ode,

To soothe their souls on dreams' soft road,

With these simple steps, may their slumber deep,

Bring peace and joy as they peacefully sleep.

In the hush of twilight's tender embrace,
Where shadows dance and dreams interlace,
There rings a sound, sweet as a spell,
A whisper of magic--silver bells.

They chime through the air, soft and clear,
Notes woven with hope, a song we hold dear.
A shimmer that glistens on crisp winter nights,
A tapestry woven with shimmering lights.

Each toll tells a tale of the years gone by,
Of laughter and love beneath vast, starry sky.
They summon the memories, fragile yet bright,
Of children in snow, their faces alight.

With hearts like the chiming, they echo and swell,
The joy of the moment, the stories they tell.
The frost-kissed air carries secrets anew,
Embracing the warmth of the bonds that we grew.

As softly they ring, like a lover's soft sigh,
Calling us home where the sweet spirits fly.
They bring forth the peace that the season bestows,
A symphony echoing as soft as a rose.

So listen, dear friend, as the silver bells chime,
Let their melody cradle you, timeless as rhyme.
In this world full of chaos, be still and behold,
The magic they weave, in their shimmering gold.

In the quiet hush of dawn's first light,
When shadows flee and dreams take flight,
I gather words like petals rare,
To weave a tapestry of praise laid bare.

With whispers soft, like a summer breeze,
I turn my gaze to the swaying trees,
And in their motion--graceful, true--
I find a rhythm, a song anew.

Praise is my craft, my heart's own beat,
In the mundane, I find the sweet--
The glimmer in a stranger's smile,
The warmth of kindness that makes life worthwhile.

For every heartbeat, for every sigh,
In the laughter that dances and the tears that dry,
I gather the moments, both small and grand,
And spin them into gold with a gentle hand.

Praise for the mountains that touch the sky,
Praise for the rivers that sing as they fly,
Praise for the love that binds us tight,
For hope that flickers, igniting the night.

In every sorrow that stirs the soul,
In every triumph that makes us whole,
I pen the verses that rise and fall--
A hymn of gratitude, a fervent call.

So let my heart be the vessel, true,
As I cradle the world in praises new;
For in each word, a spark I find,
A bridge of beauty, intertwined.

In a life well-lived, in the breath we share,
In the simple act of showing we care--
A poetry of praise is what I do,
To honor the light that shines in you.

There is a drum in the chest -- not asking permission,
only keeping time with the slow tilt of the world.
Morning folds itself into the palms of your hands,
coffee cooling like a promise you almost kept;
the city exhales, a map of small fires and small mercies,
and somewhere a child learns the fierce geometry of falling.

The river does not consult the stones before it passes,
it remembers every grief and every name
and carries both like pebbles in bright mouths.
Light finds cracks in the ordinary and pours through,
insistent as forgiveness, as stubborn as a lighthouse
that has no business still calling ships home.

Love is kinetic -- a language of repeated gestures,
notes returned in the margin of a day. Loss is kinetic too:
it arranges itself into the furniture and the silence,
sits in your chair as if it had always lived there,
learns the cadence of your hands at the sink,
keeps visiting at the hour you thought was private.

It never stops: the turning of seasons, the folding of maps
we thought we'd read through. It never stops:
the naming of things, the singeing of hope and the rescue,
the ringing of keys, the making of beds, the letting go,
the beginning and the small remaking after ruin.
We are paper boats on a rain that insists on rising.

Sometimes it is tenderness that will not pause,
a stranger's umbrella given without explanation;
sometimes it is the ache that rehearses itself at night,
a slow metronome beneath the ribs. Both keep time,
both insist on being lived through. We are not finished
with what we are learning to be -- not yet, not ever.

Stand, if you can, with your palms open to the noise:
the endless work of love, the stubborn chorus of sorrow,
the quiet repairs, the sudden laugh that undoes you.
There is a pulse in everything that breathes and breaks,
and even in breaking, something decides to continue.
Listen: it never stops -- and for now, that is a way to live.

Midnight breathes like a softened bell --
a hush of smoke and hopeful glass raised to the sky.
We fold the year into the palm of memory,
watching old mistakes turn to ash that glows
a little warmer than we expected.

Streetlight confetti, socks of laughter,
someone's tired song made bright by strangers' voices.
We count backwards and then forward, a small miracle:
seconds unhooked from regret,
seconds rewired to possibility.

There are pockets of grief we tuck beneath our coats,
buttons sewn over cracks -- not to hide but to keep warm.
Resolutions arrive as quiet visitors,
bearing simple gifts: a promise to be kinder,
a vow to listen to the soft things first.

A child unfurls the future like a paper boat,
and in the steam of hot coffee, futures steam too --
some will sing, some will stumble, some will arrive
with maps of scars that read like constellations.
New cheer is not the absence of pain;
it is the courage to light a match anyway.

So we step across midnight's thin line,
carrying last year's lessons like careful luggage,
and release what refuses to bend.
The sky fills with tiny suns of laughter,
and for a brief, shaking moment we believe
in beginnings as if they were prayers answered.

Hold this cheer like an ember in your palm:
tend it with truth, feed it with small acts.
By morning, the city will be ordinary again,
but something in us will remain brightened --
a single room lit from within,
ready to meet the quieter miracles of the year.